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Mis à jour: 20 mai 2025
Au comte de Dartmouth . Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, Fair Freedom rose New England to adorn: Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies She shines supreme, while hated faction dies. Soon us appear'd the Goddess long desir'd Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd. Thus from the splendors of the morning light The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
Where shilling pearls, coral, and many a pound On the rich shore of ambergrease is found? The lofty cedar, which to heaven aspires, The Prince of trees, is fewel for their fires, The smoack, by which their loaded spit do turn, For incense might on sacred altars burn, Their private Roofs an odorous Timber born, Such as might palaces for kings adorn, &c. */
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